


letters from the brokenhearted

by lavenderss



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Angst, F/M, Forbidden Love, Post Season 3, Post-Canon, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25553680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderss/pseuds/lavenderss
Summary: Just one last letter where she will explain everything and then she can finally move on - or not.She should've known that resisting her isn't in his vocabulary - and resisting him isn't in hers, not anymore. She should've known that whetever she touches will inevitably get fucked up.She probably knew, but she sent it anyways.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	1. i will always love you

**Author's Note:**

> This is set seven years after season three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you'll find out, in this work, Carla is living in London and hasn't had much contact with her high school classmates, and none with Samuel.

Samuel stares at the envelope in his hand like it's an alien species. It's not that it's a _letter_ , an actual letter that came for him in the mail, which is something that just doesn't happen in this day and age – but that's not the problem.

The problem is the neat, light-blue handwriting that his address is drawn in. He'd spent too much time staring into composition books filled with notes in the same little letters, slightly tilted to the right.

The envelope doesn't have the sender's address in the top-left corner – which is risky considering that it's international mail – so he could try to convince himself that he can't be sure, except that he is.

And he can't breathe.

What he thinks while shakily unsticking the flap of the the envelope open, is: _why now?_

.

_Dear Samuel,_

_I don't even know why I'm writing this. Honestly, I don't even remember when was the last time I wrote more than what fits on a post-it note with a pen. And I'm sure that I have never sent a letter (and definitely not overseas), if you don't count the love letters we'd send to each other with Polo from one end of the classroom to the other when we were twelve._

_I don't know why I wrote that. It really doesn't matter what Polo and I used to do at twelve. And I don't want to talk about Polo, and you definitely don't care about how I still can't stop thinking about the fact that he's dead, and that it's my fault. If I didn't force him to cover it up, and then, if I didn't lie in court, he'd be in prison, but alive. And everything wouldn't have gotten so fucked up._

_Sorry. Ignore that. I don't want to talk about what I did to Polo – my apologies won't be of any use to him. He's not here to hear them. (I'm sorry. That is not your problem.) But I can still apologize to you. I have to, even though you might not forgive me. But I still need to do it, or else I feel like I'll go insane. There is so much I haven't told you Samuel, so much I haven't explained, and so much to apologize for._

_I'm sorry that I lied in court. I really wanted to tell the truth, despite how mad at you I was for playing me, but then my father told me that if I did, it would be my mother to go to jail if everything would come to light, because she owns the company. I was scared of losing my family, but this was the last drop. I thought that my mum didn't deserve to go through hell because of me. So I sacrificed you and your family for myself and mine. I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry because my family was not worth saving. I should have picked yours if there was a family that could have been given a chance to recover from everything. I know how hurt you were that I dated Yeray for the entirety of senior year. Maybe it is so meaningless for you now that you don't even remember him – or me anymore. But despite what I said to you at the club (you probably don't remember that either, but I told you that I'd forget your name in five years. I didn't. I still remember it, I still remember you, and I've had two extra years.)_

_I said that at the club because my father threatened to hurt you if he caught you near me. I never meant it. I wasn't even angry at you at that point anymore – I was just miserable. Because everything was so fucked up. Because it's my fault that everyone around me gets hurt. Including you._

_I didn't date Yeray because I wanted to hurt you, and I didn't even do it to push you away and protect you from my father (or it wasn't the main part). I dated Yeray so that he would invest in our wineries that were on the verge of bankrupcy. Now you know. If you didn't hate me completely, you probably lost all of your respect for me – if you had some left. I was a golddigger, and that is the less insulting word you could use. I didn't want to be, my father forced me to, but I didn't stand up to him. And when I did, I found out that my mother was in on it with him, and that just broke me. That was why I was high for the better part of senior year – to forget about all the shit in my life. But I still couldn't forget about you. You probably don't remember any of it, but you still kept caring about me, no matter how much I pushed you away. I'll never be able to thank you enough. I didn't deserve it._

_I've been whining so much in this letter, this is probably impossible to read. I'm sorry. Everything turned out fine in the end – Yeray helped me get free from my father, and we're good friends now. He didn't know about any of it, and when he found out, he was quick to forgive me for using him and not loving him. I didn't deserve that, either._

_I never loved him, Samuel. You don't care about some meaningless high school affair now, but I need to explain. Because you deserve to know the truth. I didn't want to hurt you, but I thought that me hurting you would be a better option than my father doing it. And I am still glad that I managed to keep you safe, even though it broke my heart._

_I wanted to get back together with you before Polo died, when I was finally out of my father's claws. But then Polo died, and someone made me see that whenever I get close to someone, they get hurt. And it's true. Polo and Christian both paid dearly. And you didn't, because I stayed away. So, I would've done the same thing now, even if I had the chance to change my past choices, because now, you're successful, and you're happy._

_Are you happy?_

_You seem like it. I saw Guzmán the other day because he had some business in London, and we met up. He told me all about how you two went to business school together and I know that you're his partner in the construction company he took over. And he told me how you make sure that the working conditions are safe, and the wages and holidays are good, maybe even too good – but you haven't bankrupted yet – and the quality and safety of your buildings is never compromised for money. I'm so proud of you, Samuel._

_You know how I said that I didn't know why I was writing this? I lied. I do. It's because Guzmán also told me that you are getting married. I just can't stop ruining your life, apparently, no matter whichever stage you're at. But I just need to tell you. I'm really sorry for what I'm about to write._

_I love you, too._

_I loved you then, and I love you now. You probably forgot about me, and that's good – it's good for you. And all I want is for you to be happy, because you deserve it. But I – I don't know. I'm a horrible person for making this mess inside your head by telling you I love you when you're engaged. I'm sure your fiancée is beautiful, smart, kind, and also the luckiest girl in the world. And you had a wonderful stable relationship before I came in with this nonsensical_ _splurge of feelings_ _._

_Perhaps I'm giving myself too much importance, because you love this new girl, and not me, and all you feel is pity now – I hate to be pitied, but I am definitely subject to a lot of pity right now. Deservingly so. Look at what I am doing._

_I'm sorry. I missed my chance with you, and I know it. I sincerely hope that you're happy, the happiest you could be. As happy as I was when we were together at your place (maybe with your disgusting pasta), talking and teasing each other and kissing. I have never felt so happy since._

_You're too good for me, Samuel. That's why I let you go. I am so happy that you have managed to forget about all of the shit that you had to go through. And I'm sorry that I'm reminding you of it, but I am selfish, just like I always have been. And this is my attempt at feeling better by getting closure._

_So far it isn't working. All I've managed is to feel shitty and cry for an hour. Half of the letter is wet from my tears. It's probably wrinkly and impossible to read. But I'll most likely never send this anyways, so it doesn't matter._

_I'm sorry, Samuel. I'm so sorry. And I love you, I always have. And I always will._

_Trust me when I say that. I tried to get over you, I really did, in all ways possible. But I can't stop loving you. So now I know that I won't stop, for the rest of my life._

_I really don't know what I'm trying to achieve with this. You have a fiancée, and I'm sending you this letter – well, I'm probably not gonna send it. Most likely. I can't. And even if you got it, you probably would've thrown it away once you'd have found out who it is from. Or stop reading after the first paragraph. If not because of who sent it, because this is really badly written. It's incoherent and depressing and it doesn't even make sense._

_So I guess I'll end it now. There's nothing more for me to say, and nothing more for me to do, and this is so stupid and I'll probably tear it into pieces once I put down the pen._

_Because it's the first time that I admitted that I love you somewhere which isn't inside my head._

_God, Samuel. If this somehow got to you, if I'll be insane enough to send it and you'll be – I don't know what – intriqued, or sympathetic enough to have read this far, I hope that you're happy for one last time. Don't feel like you have to answer me (then again, the chance that you're reading this is so small that this sentence is completely pointless). Go live your life where you've moved on. I mean, I'm fine, really. The company is blossoming and we have an established branch in London now, I have great friends that support me, I have nothing to complain about. You live your happy life with your wife and don't feel the need to make sure whether I'm okay that you used to feel (that you hopefully don't anymore). Because really, I am okay._

_All that matters is that you're happy._

_And if you're not happy because you couldn't forget about me (this is definitely just my stupid imagination and overinflated ego), I'm so sorry for what I put you through. I didn't want to do it, as I've said – it hurt me so much._

_I did it because I thought it was best. And I'm repeating myself and this is way too long and doesn't make any sense and I'm not going to send it anyways._

_So this is it._

_I love you, Samuel._

_Always yours,_

_Carla_

.

Carla finds a well-known envelope in her mailbox two weeks later, and when she feels it under her fingers, the smooth and thick premium paper, she feels a mixture of relief and sadness. She doesn't know how it got back to her after they couldn't deliever it since she didn't provide her address - if she was already sending it, she might as well give it the chance to be read. But well, it did come back.

She plans on throwing it in the trash straight away, but then she sees the corners of the envelope torn and her address covering the original one, and a spike of adrenaline rushes through her.

She doesn't tear it off on the driveway like she would've wanted, because the envelope is a memento now. A remembrance - and a testimony.

_I will always love you, too_ , stands on the backside of her letter in stubby black cursive writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will be a bit one-shotty (as was this one) yet they'll still click together to form a story, I promise! Thanks for anyone who's read this!


	2. in a different place and time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (maybe in another life, I'll bet that baby you and I would have worked.)  
> /taken from _If you met me first_ by Eric Ethridge 
> 
> I'm super sorry for the wait! I wanted to post it on wattpad and here simultaneously and wanted to wait until I post on there a little, so...

_Dear Carla,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I'm sorry it took me so long. I had to think about everything you've written to me to reply properly. But I sent you my immediate answer already, I did it about ten minutes after I finished reading. Did you get it? I hope you did, because otherwise, your letter would be lost forever. As much as I wanted to keep it, I thought that you should have it. Because you need it more._

_In case you didn't get it, I sent your letter back and wrote: I will always love you, too, on the backside._

_And it's true. That was the thought in the back of my mind while reading your letter. It_ _was_ _the thought on the back of my mind for the past seven years._

_I couldn't believe when I read that it has been the thought on the back of your mind, too._

_I love you, Carla. And I can't believe that you love me, too. It feels too good to be true._

_So, as someone who loves you after all these years, I would never lie to you. So you have to listen to me (well, read) and trust me in what I'm about to say._

_You have nothing to apologize for. None of what happened was your fault._

_That is why I sent you back your letter – so that you could read it after yourself and realize how stupid it was from you to blame yourself for everything, when nothing of it was your fault.You were used, Carla, as a teenager who was supposed to be carefree and happy, you had more on your plate than what the majority of adults do. And you had to go through it alone._ _I'm sorry for not being there._

_Fuck, Carla, and I started the whole shit. I should be the one to apologizing. You were threatened, abused, forced to do things against your will, all by ythe people who should be the ones protecting you, then addicted to drugs, you almost died, and your childhood boyfriend was killed and you had to act as if nothing had happened. And I left you alone after all of it. If there's someone who should apologize, it's me. I claimed to love you, but I did nothing. Fuck, Carla, I cried for so long (I feel like you deserve to know the rather embarrassing truth – it was hours) after I read all that you've gone through, completely alone, and it was as if someone was crushing my heart._

_Carla, I'm so, so, so sorry._

_You're the only person I know who would be able to experience all of the abuse you have and manage to get through it. You're the strongest person I know and I love you for that. And for so much more._

_You're sweet, you're kind, you're loyal. You're funny. You're beautiful inside and out. I can't describe how much it hurt me when you left me, and how much it touched me when I found out that you did it for me and not because you didn't feel the same as I did. You're so selfless, Carla; you would rather suffer yourself than exert pain on anyone else._

_You apologized to me so many times throughout your letter. I don't accept your apologies – because for the things you did, I forgave you, and you apologized for things that weren't your fault. Carla, I love you so much, you will never know. I can't grasp it myself. It should be so easy to explain, because it feels so natural and so unchangeable but it isn't. I can't put my feelings into words properly, but I will try anyways. It's as if my heart only beats for you, and not for anyone else. You're the reason why I breathe, why I eat, why I run, why I live._

_I never stopped loving you, Carla. And I never will._

_And it hurts, because despite this, I was the one to send the thing between us to hell first. I never properly apologized about tricking you in the most cruel way when I faked my disappearance. I'll do it now. I'm so sorry, Carla. I was a seventeen year old idiot fighting for justice in all the wrong ways. Hopefully, I haave gotten better at that throughout the years. Justice and fairness has to be gained through just and fair means; otherwise, it is just as wrong as it is corrupted and stained._

_I'm not acting on par with my beliefs now, though. You don't know how it hurts me to write this, but I have to be honest. I am getting married in three months. That is the situation we are in._ _But no matter where I will be, Carla, please, never forget that I will never love anyone the same way that I love you. You have my whole heart, and you will always have it in your posession. I couldn't ask for a better person to fall in love with._

_Carla, please, stop blaming yourself for everything that happened. None of it was your fault. You are the kindest and most selfless person to exist. The only person responsible for the deaths are the murderers; you are not responsible for anyone's pain and suffering. Please, try to forget about everything that happened. You are the single person in this world who deserves to be happy the most._

_I have to leave, but I promise you for the second time, I will always love you, too. Even if we can't be together. My heart aches as I'm writing this. But that is how it is._

_I'll always be yours._

_Samuel_

.

Two weeks after his initial response, Carla receives a further one, one that affirms everything she's been thinking about since getting the first. The letter she'd sent has only made her and Samuel's suffering worse. _Star-crossed lovers._

Carla never liked cliché tragic love stories. She used to laugh at the pretentious tear-jerking films that Lu, of all people, used to take deadly seriously. Her early teenage best friend would usually start crying even before the second half even came on. Carla never cried. A few times, she even _laughed_. 

Maybe she really used to be that cold-hearted bitch everyone took her for.

Only now, due to a bitter plot twist in the script of her own life, is she able to fully appreciate the excruciating pain of those pathetically martyrish couples that were held apart for whatever out-of-their hands reason. 

She accepts – what other option does she have? None – that Samuel and her are this kind. The kind that spends days with a dull pain in their stomach and late nights thinking about each other with a pillow wetted with impossible tears. She doesn't try to connect with him again; everything was pretty clear after the first response, and sure as hell is clear now: they simply don't have a chance. It won't do them any good to pour salt into their wounds by having any more contact.

She's good at secretly living in pain - always has been. And it hurts like hell. She doesn't expect to ever see him again.

And when she opens her door one Wednesday evening and finds a pair of chocolate eyes and a messy ruffle of chocolate hair, she thinks that it's one of the cruel nightmares she's been having. They only become nightmares after she wakes up and discovers that they weren't real.

"Carla," he says. His voice is indescribable. She reads every existing emotion in it, all swirled together and dripping from the syllables of her name.

She stands like a statue in the doorframe and is unable to move, speak, or do absolutely anything at all.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I don't know what – I shouldn't have invaded you like this – am I disrupting you, or-"

"No." Her voice is weak and quiet, it's a string of molten glass barely holding up together. "You can come in."

She leads Samuel to her living room, which is connected to the kitchen, and goes to get them both a glass of water, because even if he doesn't need it, she does. She will probably choke if she doesn't drink something fast.

"I'm sorry," Samuel's apologies crush her and crush her and crush her again. She's glad that she's by the sink, turned back to him. "I know that this is competely inappropriate and I know it's so impolite to just show up and I really shouldn't be here, but – fuck. Carla, I couldn't stop thinking about you ever since reading your letter. I _needed_ to see you."

She returns with two glasses and practically forces one into his hand, and then they both take a gulp and she sits down on the couch next to him and doesn't calculate the distance correctly and their thighs brush and they both get an electric shock.

Samuel coughs up his water and then rapidly puts down his glass on the TV table. When he next speaks, it's not the nervous ramble he couldn't seem to stop himself from producing ever since he reached her house.

Samuel is in _her house_.

"I love you," he says.

Carla stays quiet.

"My finacée is pregnant," he says next, more to himself than to her. Carla is glad that she's stayed quiet, because she has correctly analyzed the circumstances. "And I love _you_ ," he continues incredulously, both of them staring straight at the black turned-off TV on the opposite wall. "Fuck, Carla. Fuck."

"Yeah," she gets out heavily, the first word she was able to vocalize since inviting him in. They sit in silence for a few crushing seconds, before she quietly adds: "I love you, too," and finally builds up the courage to look in his face.

And then they're kissing. The worst case scenario starts unwinding.

The subsequent sex is voiceless, tantalizingly slow and torturously painful – not physically, emotionally. The air is suffocating them with every little thing that is wrong and they feel it falling on them and crushing their bones, yet they don't stop. Carla wishes to be buried alive by the pressure instead of having to reach the end.

"I love you," he says again after they're done and staring at the ceiling, and all it does is break her heart. "Fuck, Carla, fuck. I love you, I love you, I love you."

She still doesn't say anything.

"I can't – fuck." The amount of curse words overwhelmingly pulses in Carla's brain. "Fuck. Shit, this is just so fucking unfair."

And then he's crying. 

"Shit," Carla says because she doesn't have a better word to encompass everything that she is feeling, either. Then she pulls him up by his wrist and leads him, without a word, out of the house, then out of the garden, then out of the street, then off the path in the park that they've reached, and then they stand on the bank of Thames. It's about midnight, and everything is quiet.

"Shit!" she yells into the dark water. "Fuck! Ass! Hell!"

"Fucking stupid retarded ass-licking motherfucking idiotic fate of this godforsaken shitty asshole imbecillic life!" He catches up quickly. With each one of their curses, a bit of the desperation leaves and dissipates into the cold midnight air – something they don't even realize. But when she repeats _fuck_ for about the tenth time – she's nowhere near as creative as him – they both burst out laughing.

She grabs his wrist and turns him towards herself. His eyes transmit so much tenderness and admiration – it's a stark, overpowering contrast for someone who's just used the entirety of the dictionary of pejorative vocabulary.

They're kissing again. It's entirely her fault this time.

He has a fucking pregnant fiancée at home and he fucks _her_ in a park, in a literal _bush_ , like they're two horny highschoolers.

"I have to be back in Madrid for a meeting at two," he says after they're finished and walking back to her house, and Carla fucking _giggles_.

"I think we can fit a bit more into the night," she says. It doesn't matter how many times they do it – they crossed the line already.

She has to leave for work at eight thirty. He's obviously gone when she comes back home, but his smell in her bedsheets isn't. Carla wraps herself up in them and cries for an eternity.


	3. want grows stronger, deeper than the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my last update took so long and I'm going to camp and won't have a chance to update (or write or go online) for two weeks, I thought that I could publish this very soon after the last update! I hope you'll enjoy, and thanks for all your kudos!  
> /title taken from _War of hearts_ by Ruelle

She finds herself in Madrid during one of her rare work breaks. Not that she has that much work, actually – she could delegate. She's the boss, after all. It's just that she doesn't really see the point in having free time when she doesn't have a better way to spend it than get drunk at a night club – _pub_ – with some of her friends from college.

But this time, she has a week off, and what she's doing with it is less than admirable. It is purely evil, wretched, sinful.

“Hi,” he says when he opens the door of the hotel room for her, but she doesn't greet back. She just kicks the door shut, hears her luggage tip over with a thump and a clink of the metallic handle against the wooden floor, and decisively grabs him by his shoulders and kisses him, hard.

She should've known they would end up like this. They're not some sort of tragic noble figures; they're hungry vultures who have been denied their feast for too long. They're selfish and lascivious and _in love_.

As if that made it any better.

“God, Carla,” he groans against her mouth and squeezes her ass. It's tasteless and vulgar and she loves it.

“Don't talk,” she says, because she's been abstaining for two months and she feels extremely out of control. She needs _him_.

He actually seems a bit hurt by that, but he can't keep it up long, when Carla, during another hungry kiss, takes one of her hands off his cheek and starts getting her way into his pants. She has to let go of his head completely, because unbuttoning singlehandedly is an impossible quest, but she manages to hold the kiss a little longer.

“I missed you so much,” he manages to get out when she finally gets her hand into his underwear, and she would kind of giggle at the fact that his words are synchronized with his getting hard, except that she knows that it's not what he means.

“I missed you, too,” she replies seriously. She wraps her hand around him tenderly, bites her lip and lifts her eyes to look up in his. “Samuel.”

It goes fast, him ripping off her skirt, his hand rubbing over the lace, under the lace, one finger, two, her panties cutting into her thighs, her on the bed, him hungrily kissing her, him inside. Carla buries her fingernails in his back and her gasps in his mouth.

“I love you,” she says and subsequently moans as he adds a finger rubbing her clit and a bite on her neck. She doesn't know whether it is a response to her declaration or whether he had it planned.

Carla scratches his back a little more aggressively to cope and she feels a drop of blood under her nail, she also feels him tense up, which makes _her_ tense up in response, and she waits for him to tell her off.

He doesn't, though. They're probably too out of control to care right now, about anything and anyone. They used to be much more careful at the start – he used to pay strictly in cash and she had to be the one to always book the hotel rooms, under her anglicized name, and they used to book private suites. They used to be careful and slow and gentle and also made sure that they each had a good excuse and alibi.

Now, they don't even care.

Carla feels very bad for Samuel's wife, who hasn't asked and doesn't deserve an old toxic romance of her husband's creeping back on him; she certainly doesn't deserve it when she's busy at home, taking care of an eighteen-month-old, and is under the impression that Samuel is insanely busy with work. Which, he is, but not that intensely that he has to travel across Spain and abroad for days at a time at least once a month or two.

Samuel's son definitely doesn't deserve for his father to be even more absent from his life than he has to be, because he chooses to meet up with his twisted highschool sweetheart for fucks instead of watching him take his first steps.

That really happened during one of their getaways; he got a video of it on whatsapp. He showed it to her.

God, Carla is an awful person.

“I love you, too,” he says back. It makes it even worse. He loves _her_. He doesn't love his wife, the mother of his child. Or, he does, but _not in the same way_. It only makes it worse because Carla feels pure bliss, hearing him say it. It silences her guilt instead of heightening it as it should, if she was a good person and not one that keeps ruining lives.

He sucks a mark onto her skin and although she doesn't currently have a relation, casual or not – she's kind of stopped trying since a few months ago, and she knows that he prefers it that way, even though he would never tell her off, considering the fact that he simply can't, in his situation – much less a husband, she still finds herself worrying a bit about being able to cover it.

How stupid. They have four more days together; once she has to go back for work, it'll definitely be gone.

“Samuel,” she moans.

She's never been a good person, she knows that now. The boy who once had the power to bring up the good in her failed to resist her venom – she dragged him down with her instead of him helping her up.

She can't bring herself to hate herself for it too much when he whispers _I love you_ in her ear and she replies. Carla is definitely going to hell.

.

The restaurant is exquisite and judging by how the waiters treat Samuel with genuine grins, not polite ones, she is sure that he's a regular. Judging by the way they don't give _her_ any glances, he doesn't go there with his wife. Or, they're just very good employees.

Nevertheless, Carla still feels wrong. “Samuel,” she whispers and tugs him by his arm, like she's a five-year-old getting her father's attention. It's a little fucked up.

“What?” He grins and pecks her lips. In public. Carla rolls her eyes and lets herself be shown to the table. When her purse is hanging over the back of her chair, she opens her mouth.

“This is too risky.”

“Don't worry, _we_ don't even live in Madrid anymore. And nobody here knows about – you know, Gabriella.”

It's a beautiful name. She's also a beautiful woman, raven-haired and tan and with sparkling eyes. Carla knows everything about her appearance, her existence, how she likes her morning coffee.

( _That_ was an embarrassing moment. He brought it to her from the coffee machine in their hotel room – showing he was a well-rounded and capable man, not because of the drink, because he could use technology – too little milk and too much sugar. Carla almost spat it out. He shrugged his shoulders and said that _Gabriella likes it that way_. Then they both froze. Then they slept together. They knocked over the full cup into the bedsheets.)

Carla knows everything about her, yet this woman knows nothing about Carla. Well, _hopefully_. It's a transcendental feeling.

“I have a present for you.”

Carla's eyes gleam and she finds herself embarrassingly excited, unvoluntarily teeth-showing, at the gift bag he hands to her over the table.

When she discovers a ring, she isn't smiling at all.

“Do you like it?”

Sometimes, she wonders why she's even in love with him. His IQ is clearly lower than a gorilla's. The fact that he said the question with a smile, and those eyes of his actually sparkling, fully support her theory.

“Samuel,” she sighs. “It's – beautiful,” - because it is, it's gold and diamonds, what's not to like - “but-”

“I know, I know, it's weird,” he says, so maybe he isn't that stupid after all. “But- I just saw it and I knew that I had to get it for you.”

It's the cheesiest sentence that could exist, and it's utterly unconvincing, too, because why would Samuel just go into fine jewellry shops on accident? He isn't into things like these; he wears exactly one silver chain, and it might be the same one from high school. So, the only other reason why he might pay a visit to this sort of place is because he intentionally went there to buy something for her, or because he intentionally went there to buy something for his wife and then thought of _Carla_.

Jesus christ.

“It's beautiful,” she repeats and slides the ring onto her thin and delicate and empty finger. “Thank you.”

She buys him one herself the next day; it's a revenge and a test. It's her way of saying: _You can't just buy rings for people._

He puts it on immediately and smirks. “Looks good on me. I'm not taking it off.”

.

When they're saying goodbye at the airport, Carla cries a little. She doesn't want to go to London to her mundane friends and repetitive wine tastings. As much of an expert on wines as she claims to be, they all just start being very similar after you try hundreds in your lifetime. A hint of cedar, an undertone of cherry – who the fuck _really_ cares?

She's just being bitter because of Samuel's departure – normally, she cares. At least a little.

“What would you say to Paris in two weeks? I have a meeting there, but it'll only be one afternoon, and then we can spend a few days in the city of love.”

“I'd love that,” Carla answers, not thinking about his wife. She thinks about the Eiffel Tower and whether she could drag him to Disneyland, which is one of the happy memories from her childhood that she has: a picture of her sitting on a bench between her parents, all of them with Mickey ears on their heads and her with a huge pretzel in her hand. She wants Samuel to take her there, an adult person, drag him into a photo booth and put a headband on his head. She doesn't want him to take his own child there and create those few good memories for his son, while he still has time, because Carla is painfully aware that this affair will one day blow up in their faces, and there won't be much of a childhood left for his son after that.

It is clearly established that she is not a good person; at twenty-five, she is living the life of a bored housewife without the husband that she should be escaping from.

Or a sugar baby. 

He takes her hands into his and kisses her; she stands on her tiptoes and draws her hand to his head. It would be a perfect postcard photo, if she was his wife or he at least didn't have one on his own.

“I love you,” she says, eyes flooded. “I'm gonna miss you so much.”

“I always miss you, every second of every day,” he replies, as always, much too overdramatically, and pulls her close. “I love you, Carla, never forget that.”

“I know.”

The worst thing is, she knows. She's completely sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that Samuel's heart only beats for her.

She's definitely thought about using it to her advantage: telling him, _I won't keep seeing you like this_ or _If you love me, you'll divorce her_. She's gone over the possibilities more times than she could count.

There's a much bigger probability that he'd do it than that he'd stand up to her. Or, maybe he would try. But they both know they're way too dependent on each other. It would be another of those games of pride and control, and she's sure that she would be capable of winning. Or, almost certain.

The actual fact is that one of them _would_ crack, sooner or later, and it would leave a trail of tears and slaps and contracts and legal battles. Carla can't bring herself to do that.

She doesn't know whether that makes her a better person or worse.

“Samuel? Carla?”

Dying of stroke at twenty-five wasn't in her plans; however, this Samuel _secret affair thing_ wasn't, either, yet she's still perpetuating it, so maybe another strain from her pre-drawn line of life wouldn't be too bad: it would solve a lot of things for her and even more for Samuel, that's for sure.

Yet, her heart retorts to beating normally and she manages to greet Rebeka calmly.

“What are you doing here? Going somewhere?”

“Carla's going to London,” Samuel explains, and Carla realizes that they're still hand-in-hand because his pulses against her touch nervously. “I'm just saying goodbye.”

“Well, I have to board in a few minutes, but it was great seeing you two! We should catch up sometime and you'll tell me all about how _that_ happened,” she grins. They both have rings now; it's a Shakespearean tragedy. “And,” Rebeka licks her lips and switches her purse from left to right hand, “It's great that you two managed to move past it! Good for you!”

Carla finds it extremely difficult to sit in one spot on the plane after that. Rebeka couldn't have been more wrong with her choice of words.

They definitely didn't manage to move past it. They're _in it_ , deeper than ever.

When she gets off the plane, she finds a text on her phone.

_I miss you already._

It feels impossible to wait for two weeks after _that_.

**Author's Note:**

> I brought this over from my Wattpad because I just felt like the format will fit here - and it's a source of satisfaction to see the number of Carmuel fics on this site rise. I guess if someone will appreciate it, that's only good.


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